Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. And I am grateful to you. The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank. ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted.
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